


A Singular Talent for Falling

by DoilySpider



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley is not very good at expressing his emotions, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoilySpider/pseuds/DoilySpider
Summary: There was something about almost losing everything that rearranged one’s perspective. Crowley could do anything he wanted now. He could tell him.In the wake of an averted apocalypse, Crowley struggles to give voice to something he's been afraid to speak.





	1. I: Liberation

Demons were not, strictly speaking, supposed to love. Demons weren’t meant to do a lot of things: imagine, dream, want anything for themselves. But Crowley had never been any good with supposed-tos, which is exactly how he’d ended up a demon in the first place. And Crowley loved a great deal. He loved the Earth with all its pleasures and lessons, its beauties and wonders. He loved the clever, curious humans in spite of and sometimes because of their flaws. After all, it was human ingenuity that had given him his Bentley, which also he loved. And, of course, he loved Aziraphale

He’d resented that at first. It felt like a trick or perhaps some celestial slight; here, Crowley, have a tender and loyal servant of God, forever nearby, forever reminding you of the Divine light you were cast from. But it wasn’t God he saw in Aziraphale. It was a shade, just a glimpse of the very defiance and indulgence which Crowley himself had been punished for that somehow this angel made look wholesome. He infuriated Crowley. He amazed him.

It had dawned on him, slowly over the centuries, turning with the speed of the march of civilization. Demons were not supposed to love. But especially they were not supposed to love romantically. That was the purview of humanity. But humans had a way of rubbing off on Crowley. At some point the whole Arrangement had gotten out of hand. Begrudging respect became appreciation. Appreciation became fondness. Fondness became an unflinching compulsion to bring Aziraphale happiness and protect him from harm. This was all very unbecoming of a demon, behaviors and instincts that could get Crowley tortured at best, should anyone know. But it snowballed all the same, and Crowley found he needed to see Aziraphale more often, to bask in the sight of him, to be closer, and closer. And then he knew.

He didn’t dare speak it. Sure, they’d gotten away with the Arrangement this long without notice. But some paranoid voice in the core of Crowley told him that if he gave the feeling a name out loud, then everyone would know. It would be written all over them, and he would be destroyed. And worse, he would get Aziraphale destroyed. It wasn’t worth the risk to release the pressure by saying it. After all, it was his purpose to suffer. Maybe it was part of his punishment. After all, the humans did call it Falling in love.

Besides, who was he to presume that Aziraphale would reciprocate? Oh, Aziraphale loved him, that much was obvious. It was plain in his voice and the glint of his eyes. But Crowley always presumed it was just that innate Angelic Love that Aziraphale had for all things. The kind that read with the full spectrum of what love could be. But. But sometimes it seemed, or Crowley wanted to believe, that there were smiles Aziraphale had only for him. And Crowley knew, to be sure, that Aziraphale wouldn’t share his rare wines with just anyone.

Crowley had been afraid to speculate further. But that was before.

There was something about almost losing everything that rearranged one’s perspective. And the nights Aziraphale had spent sharing a roof with Crowley, for a time, cemented for him how much he wanted that for the rest of their existences. They were free now. Free from the prying eyes of Heaven and Hell, free from their edicts and demands. Crowley could do anything he wanted now.

He could tell him.

The first attempt went, well, poorly. Crowley arrived at the bookshop with flowers and a bottle of wine cradled in his arms. It had been, at that point, a few short months since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. He let himself in, waving the lock open, never one to knock. “Aziraphale, you in?” he called.

Then Aziraphale emerged from around a row of shelves, and his face alit with that radiance of his, and he breathed Crowley’s name with all the feather-soft tenderness of someone reuniting with a loved one long-lost. Which Aziraphale did regularly, even if they’d just seen each other yesterday.

That’s when the questions Crowley wanted to ask and the things he wanted to say crawled up into his throat and choked him. He couldn’t tell him. How could he tell him? If he didn’t feel the same, that would be a wound, but fine enough. But what if there was still enough angelic pride in Aziraphale, even after they’d both been cut loose by their respective sides, that the idea of a demon having not just love but desire for him upset him? What if it frightened him? Disgusted him? He deigned to be a friend to Crowley in his compassion, but this might be a bridge too far. And an eternity with Aziraphale repelled by him? The thought was too much for Crowley to bear. Crowley had made a handful of human friends, but they wouldn’t last long, not by immortal standards, and then Crowley would be quite alone, with the person he cared for the most so close and so far, and hating him. Forget the pit entirely, _that_ was Hell.

Crowley was snapped out of his reverie by Aziraphale asking, “What’s the occasion?” He must have looked perfectly baffled, because Aziraphale pointed to indicate the gifts in Crowley’s arms.

Bless it.

Crowley glanced down, then back up at Aziraphale. Then down, then up. “No occasion, I stole it,” he blurted out.

Nope. That wasn’t it.

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Oh, Crowley,” he chided. “Where did you get them from? I’ll pay them myself.”

“No!” Crowley said, a bit too sharply. “No, no, don’t bother. It’s um… he was an adulterer. The shopkeep. Small retribution?”

Aziraphale sighed, came close to gather up the wine and flowers. “I should recompense him all the same. Perhaps his partner needs the money, they’re going through enough, the poor dear.”

This was spiraling out of control. And Crowley, ever the strategist, always in top form, compensated for this social blunder smoothly and with ease by abruptly snapping, “Oh, as though you’ve never stolen a book? I know you have, don’t play innocent with me, angel!” Yes. Excellently done. Brilliant.

With the flowers half into a vase, Aziraphale froze and stared at him. His little nose twitched, and his shoulders squared. “I-I, well, I… they would’ve been lost!” he yelped. “I had to preserve them, h-had to… well… knowledge is a virtue, yes?”

“It’s wisdom that’s a virtue,” Crowley said, leaning against a bookshelf and kicking up one leg against it. “Knowledge can be forbidden. I should know.”

Oh, and Aziraphale was sulking now. He’d set the vase aside and was just wringing the bottle of merlot idly in his hands. It stung, looking at him like this.

Crowley shook his head and pulled himself up straight. “You know what?” he said. “It’s all yours, enjoy it. I’ll go see it taken care of.” He slunk to the door, hands in his pockets, head low.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “But don’t you want to--”

Crowley wanted a great deal. “Good night, angel.” He saw himself out.

He would not even dream of broaching the subject again for another two years.

It did not go better.


	2. II: In The Dark

You don’t change thousands of years of habits in just a couple. Crowley still found himself working mischief, inconveniencing people, sowing discord, or at least irritation. He had no one to report it to and no one asked. Neither commendations nor inquiries came to him anymore. But if he didn’t fiddle, at least a bit, in the affairs of humanity, what was he supposed to do?

Then again, he wasn’t a demon when he was made. It wouldn’t be the first time he would have to change his understanding of what he was for. Only this time, no one had given him marching orders.

The second time he went to broach the subject with Aziraphale, it was not without a certain desperation. After all, making plans with him was one of the few things that gave Crowley a sense of purpose. That, and checking up on Adam and his friends every once in a while, seeing how they were doing, being among the few people they could talk to, really talk to, about what happened. Once a little over a year ago, Adam had told Crowley that he didn’t count as a grown-up, that he was something else, and Crowley rightly decided to take it as a compliment.

After waiting at the Ritz about an hour there was a fear that pinged in Crowley’s heart. Aziraphale was insufferably punctual, especially if there was wining and dining on the line. Had Heaven given up on neutrality and come to collect him? He abandoned the table after taking a moment to return the wine he’d drank, then raced back to the bookshop to the sound of one Freddie Mercury crooning, “ _This thing called love, I just can’t handle it, this thing called love, I must get ‘round to it, I ain’t ready…_ ”

He skidded into a park on the streetside and took a moment to compose himself as though he wasn’t panicking before marching up the steps and through the door. “What gives, angel?” he called through the stacks. “You get lost?”

A confused relief came over Crowley when he heard Aziraphale call back, “Oh! Just a moment!” Confused because from the shake and the strain in Aziraphale’s voice it was obvious that he had been crying. In fact, when Aziraphale came out from the back room to greet him, in spite of the smile he forced, it was plain from the way his clothes were all slightly askew and the redness around his eyes that he’d been in a bad way for a while. “My apologies, I quite lost track of time.”  
  
Crowley closed the gap between them in just a few long strides, getting in close to study him. To loom protectively in his aura. “What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing,” Aziraphale said, shrugging, fussing with his bow tie. “Terribly sorry to make you wait. I’ll make it up to you. My treat.”

“Nothing to make up except to be honest with me,” Crowley said. “I’ve been a professional liar for thousands of years, and known you nearly as long as that. If you don’t want to talk about it? Suit yourself. But you won’t convince me that you’re alright, and you should know that.”

Aziraphale stopped forcing it, and it was no relief to see the grief wash over his face. “It’s… really, it’s a foolish thing. I won’t want to trouble you with it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, then slipped around beside Aziraphale to pull up one of the plush reading chairs and sit, his long legs flung over the side and his arm tucked behind the back. “Trouble me,” he said.

For a moment Aziraphale stalled, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, all his body language stilted and guarded. Finally, he crumpled to the floor and sat. He picked up a nearby book, any book, and held it to his chest for comfort. “I… it’s just… I haven’t heard anything from upstairs.”

“That’s for the best, isn’t it? Considering?”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, his eyes slightly damp. “It just makes everything seem so… quiet. And then you start to think, really think, about the distances involved. Between here and there. So I gave up on laying low, finally, and I tried to make a fuss. I flung around miracles to clean the shop and heat my tea. I blessed every animal in the park. And no one said a word, didn’t even sent a note. So… so then I tried doing a few curses and temptations, as I used to do for you, though I have a hard time stomaching it, but this time I pointed it out. I called to the heavens, ‘look! I have misled this man into petty thievery! will you not reprimand me?’ And no one came.”

Crowley folded up his shades, now they were alone together, and tucked them away, letting himself get a good look at Aziraphale in his ongoing existential crisis. “Why,” he asked, “would you ever want to see them again? Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, the whole lot. I heard the way they talk to you, what they think of you. They don’t deserve you and you don’t deserve the way they treat you. So why do you want to see them again so badly?” Honestly the thought of them still bristled his scales sometimes, to think on the passive aggressive cruelty Aziraphale faced from the other angels for daring to be better than them.

“It’s not about them!” Aziraphale cried. He clutched his book tight. “It’s just that, really, the lot of them are my only throughline to… to…”

And Crowley understood immediately. Aziraphale didn’t have to say. Crowley slipped down out of the chair to kneel beside Aziraphale. Tentative, hesitant, he laid a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “I know.”

“Maybe She doesn’t love me anymore,” Aziraphale said softly. He wasn’t looking at Crowley, just staring holes determinedly into the floor. “I haven’t dared look at my wings lately because what if they’re... What if I’m…”

Leaning in close, Crowley said, “Believe me, if you Fell, you’d know.”

There must have been more hooks in his voice than he’d intended because it pulled Aziraphale’s gaze finally up to him, and he winced, and that made Crowley wince in turn. “I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been terribly insensitive, haven’t I? Compared to what you’ve been through, I can’t imagine--”

“Stop,” Crowley said, looking away from the weight of that miserable stare. “This isn’t about me.”

“But if you did want to talk about it--”

“I don't.”

Aziraphale fell silent at the cut and his posture sank in a way it rarely did, almost curled up around his book.

Crowley took a breath, pushing his old wounds back down into his gut so he could look upon the angel again. “Come home with me?” he said.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” Aziraphale said, wiping at his eyes.

“You never trouble me.”

Aziraphale visibly ruffled at this. “Oh, you complain too much for that to be entirely true.”

“No, I just like to complain,” Crowley said. He unfolded himself and rose, extending a hand down to Aziraphale. “Please. I don’t want you to be alone.” He wanted him to remember that no matter what happened between here and the far sides of existence, he would never be alone. Even if they were both abandoned, completely and utterly, and left adrift. They would never be alone.

Aziraphale took the outstretched hand without hesitation, let Crowley coax him up. “I suppose that would be alright, then.” There was a relief in his voice and a gratefulness in his gaze that Crowley gathered up and kept close to save.

Crowley brought his angel back to the Bentley, back to his flat, and put the weight of his love away to bear to him some other day.


	3. III: Resurfacing

Aziraphale stayed for a while with Crowley, while he acclimated to the absence of God’s presence. Maybe a Crowley who hadn’t been through everything would have resented this quiet, understated release afforded Aziraphale, when Crowley had gotten… well, what he got. But his heart only ached for Aziraphale, because the pain of abandonment was a familiar old friend that had overstayed its welcome by now. After all, both of them had been created and designed for the express purpose of serving God. They had been created to know intimately the joy of Her divine light. And they both would never see it again. It didn’t matter how it happened.

At least, not being alone in the bookshop seemed to be doing Aziraphale some good. He had a few crying jags here and there, mostly when he thought he was alone. But he was also learning to relax. He smiled more. He’d brought a few armfuls of books from home to comfort himself. He was really starting to nest here, make himself comfortable. Crowley did wish Aziraphale would stop talking to the plants, he was making them soft. But otherwise he was glad to see him start to make himself at home.

Which was precisely why he didn’t speak a word of what had been on his mind. Aziraphale was going through too much. He needed to process his feelings about being barred from Heaven before he could process anything else, whether that took a month, a year, a century. 

Maybe it would take forever.

It had for Crowley. It was still happening.

Maybe it would be better if Crowley never put that sort of pressure on the angel. Crowley’s own selfish feelings had no bearing here, the only thing that was important was that Aziraphale was happy. Maybe it had been a spark of the demonic in Crowley that had ever told him it was a good idea in the first place. 

Besides, look at him. Curled up in a corner, nestled amid the broad leaves of a rubber plant, his eyes gleaming with wonder as he took in the words on a page. He had what he needed. Best not complicate it.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?” Crowley twitched out of his reverie, drawing himself up to full height against the doorframe where he was leaning. 

Aziraphale was looking up at him now, had turned the full power of those shining eyes on him. “Wondered what you were smiling about.”

“Sometimes I just smile.” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve been known to on occasion, despite reports to the contrary.”

“You just look so… contented,” Aziraphale said fondly, folding the book into his lap.

“So do you,” Crowley said. He traced his fingertips idly up and down the door frame. “Do you need anything?” He found himself almost longing for Aziraphale to need something, just so he could take care of it.

“Not at the moment. You’ve been such a gracious host.” Aziraphale beamed, and you could really tell where that word came from when you saw it on him.

Crowley’s chest felt full. He looked away. “Right, well. Might take a quick nap. Maybe a day or so.”

With a sigh and a purse of his lips, Aziraphale said, “I suppose if it makes you happy. I don’t see what you see in sleep. Not when there are so many things in the world to see.”   
  
Things like Aziraphale. But sometimes Crowley needed a break from all the good and beautiful things in his life that seemed so close and yet so far away. “Don’t see what you don’t,” he said. “You’re a connoisseur of creature comforts. You should try it sometime.”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale frowned, shifted his weight a bit where he sat on the floor, trying to find his balance again. “Do _ you _ need anything?”

Crowley just turned and gave a lazy wave of his hand. “I’ll live,” he said, as he stalked off to bed.

It was a mercy, Crowley thought, that he didn’t usually dream. His dreams were hideous. They clawed at him from the inside out. The worst was when he dreamed of Heaven, pleasantly cool and gently quiet. Dreamed of nestling amid the stars, weaving constellations into the sky. Dreamed of feeling wanted, and belonging. 

But now everything was dark. Darker than night, darker than Hell. Crowley couldn’t see, and he staggered forward, towards he didn’t know what. There were voices, hisses and whispers, hard to make out. And then, amid all of them, quiet as any, but clear to Crowley as a bell. “Don’t,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s heart skipped. “Aziraphale?”   
  
For a second, just a second he saw him, illuminated in the dark. Illuminated as the fire erupted around him. His eyes wide with horror and pain.

Crowley lunged for him without a second thought, fast as his long legs could take him. He toppled through the column of flame. And as he landed on the other side all he found in his arms was loose white feathers and ash. And he was alone. He was alone.

“Crowley?”

It was dark, but not Hell dark, just night, under the glimmer of handcrafted stars. Crowley jolted awake, and he could see the silhouette of Aziraphale standing over him. For a moment Crowley lay blinking confused sleep out of his eyes.

“You were sobbing.”

“Yeah?” Crowley pushed himself up to sit. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Bodies do all sorts of things when you sleep. Involuntary.”

“Creature comfort indeed,” Aziraphale grumbled. He sat on the edge of the bed, beside Crowley, and Crowley’s heart hammered against his ribcage. “I know… I know you said you didn’t want to talk. But you reached out to me, and I only want to return the kindness to you. If you still don’t want to talk, alright. Maybe I can sit here awhile with you instead, until… whatever you’re feeling passes.”

“Won’t pass,” Crowley mumbled. He fumbled in the dark to flick on the lamp. “Never does.” He turned to look at Aziraphale, bathed in the dull orange glow of the lamplight. He was smiling soft, an invitation. Crowley pulled a deep breath. “It was agony,” he said. He fixed his eyes on that infuriating, reassuring divine compassion in Aziraphale’s gaze. It would keep him afloat. “It felt like being… torn. I could feel everything I was being ripped apart. The wind beat and bit at me, it was so fast, and so far. Just, swallowing air and choking on it. It was moments but it also lasted forever, you know, the way time dilates when you can’t believe what’s happening?” His fingers dug into the sheets so tight. “And then there was the burning. And I realized I’d never known pain before, and now it was all I knew. It took my divinity. It took my name. It took everything that tied me to Her. It blackened my wings and purged my goodness.”

“No it didn’t,” Aziraphale blurted out, voice shaking, then bit his lip to keep himself from interrupting again.

Not that Crowley could stop if he wanted to. Not now. Not now that it was all finally landsliding unbidden from his mind and his mouth. “We had become to you as beasts to man, so we became them, twisting and writhing in the fire. I hoped it would destroy me but I knew it wouldn’t. I wanted more than anything not to exist anymore. Not if this was what it was to exist. And I’ve never been able to talk about this to anyone. Because all the other demons want to talk about is how angry they are, how right they are, and they take the pain of it as a mark of pride.” Crowley shook his head slowly. “And I’m angry. Oh, I’m angry. But the anger is so small. It drowns in the hurt. I wasn’t righteous. I made a mistake I can never take back, and it cost me everything.”

Crowley hadn’t realized he’d been crying until Aziraphale’s hand rested on his face, his thumb sweeping tears from his cheek. “You’re still an angel to me,” he whispered. 

And Crowley wanted to argue, but he was too tired, and too vulnerable. The word felt heavy and jagged on his shoulders. But not half so much when Aziraphale spoke it. He wanted to go back to sleep, to hide from it, to find another hole in him to bury it in. But it was out, and it was between them. Aziraphale had bared his fear to Crowley, and now Crowley laid his scars plain to him. The only thing left was to weep. To lean into Aziraphale’s outstretched hand and let over 6000 years of unspoken, unreleased agony go.

Aziraphale did not leave his side all night.


	4. IV: Absolution

Crowley must have cried himself back to sleep, because he woke the next or some other morning to sunlight and bird song. Alone. Pity. He wiped at his eyes and rubbed his head before unspooling himself from bed. There was something else mingled with the birdsong, he realized, as his senses woke up one by one. Familiar but unplaceable. Was that… “Sweet Jane”? Following the sound he stumbled out to the main room.

Someone had clearly been busy. A few more lamps were set out with tasteful red-orange shades, bringing the flat’s usually sulk-level gloom up to something acceptably warmer. There were two cups of tea out on the table, and a brand new fern that definitely had not been there this morning. A record player that definitely had not been there when Crowley went to sleep was playing a Velvet Underground vinyl that he also definitely didn’t remember owning. Aziraphale was standing nearby setting out the sugar and making a bit of a face at the record player before seeing Crowley arrive. “Ah, good morning!”

Wordlessly, Crowley pointed at the record player and gave a bemused frown.

“Yes! Well.” Aziraphale handed a cup of tea off to Crowley, doing that thing where he put on his brightest, bravest smile to veil the obvious fact that he had no confidence in what he was doing. “I thought I might try bringing a few things into this space to… to just remind you of the good things you have here. That you haven’t lost everything, because some things are still… well, still good.”

Crowley stood there, a warm cup in his hands, gazing on the love of his life, who was abuzz with nervousness and hope, resplendent with kindness. They were encircled by the sounds of the birds and the cars and the people of the city that had risen up around them over time, and of the music that Crowley loved and Aziraphale put up with. It was the music of the decades when Crowley had realized that Aziraphale would do anything for him. And that was still true. He had to trust him. Trust him with his delicate fallen heart. “They are,” he breathed. “As long as we’re making a big show of honesty?”

Aziraphale nodded, encouraged him to go on, nursing his own tea.

_Trust him_ , Crowley told himself. _He won’t hate you. If he didn’t hate you for what you are, if he didn’t hate you for your sin, he won’t hate you for this. You are not alone._

“I’m really tired of pretending you aren’t everything to me,” Crowley said. He slowly set the tea down. If he started shaking he might splash it. “You always have been. The anchor that keeps me from slipping into the abyss. You remind me there’s still goodness when I’m not sure I believe in it anymore. You remind me there’s something worthwhile in me when it feels like there shouldn’t be. I love you, Aziraphale. I have loved you. I will love you, with everything I am, and every moment left in this universe. And there is nothing I want more than to have you at my side for the rest of time.”

Aziraphale was silent now, staring. Stunned? Shocked? Horrified? He slowly lowered his teacup to the saucer in his other hand. “Oh.”

A storm rolled in inside Crowley’s stomach and he felt it thunder and shake him. He’d been wrong. This was wrong. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “That was too much. I understand. Listen, I can… I can help you gather your things, if you want to go.” He started to turn to round up Aziraphale’s books, couldn’t bear to show his face.

“No,” Aziraphale said. He caught Crowley by the sleeve and turned him. There were tears in his eyes, and that tore at Crowley. But there was also a trembling smile. And when he spoke, it was with a breathless, swelling relief. “You have no idea how long I have longed for you.”

It was Crowley’s turn for stunned silence.

“I knew I wasn’t supposed to, you were my mortal enemy,” Aziraphale went on. “But kinder and more loyal, more patient and more accepting, than anyone who was meant to be my friend. There is no one I’d rather be with right now. I… I’d trade Heaven for you any day. You are where my joy is, my dearest Crowley.”

Crowley blinked at the tears that were forming, struggling to internalize what was said to him, as any kind words tended to roll off of him like rain off a windshield. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come.

No matter, he didn’t need them. Aziraphale closed the unfathomable distance between them, pressing his mouth to Crowley. His kiss was temperate as Crowley remembered Heaven being, but more tender, more welcoming, and Crowley eased into it readily. His arms coiled around Aziraphale’s waist, for now that they were together, he felt they could never be close enough. Aziraphale’s own arms wound up behind Crowley’s back, fingers digging into shoulder blades with millennia of desperation. Crowley breathed him in, and his raven wings arched up and wrapped around the both of them. He felt lighter and safer than he could remember being for a long, long time.

They stayed that way a while. It had been so overdue, so painfully needed for both of them, that parting the kiss felt impossible. The only thing that finally broke it was a sudden gasp from Aziraphale. He ducked his head away and said, “Oh, our tea.”

Crowley found himself caught between exasperation and amusement. A surprisingly cozy place to be. He rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, steam rising freshly off the cups again.  
  
“Oh, it’s not the same when you use a miracle on it,” Aziraphale fussed. But it was still with reluctance that he relinquished Crowley and turned to go reheat the pot.

Leaning back against the table and folding his wings back in, Crowley watched Aziraphale bustle about with a new appreciation. “So what do you think?” he said. “About staying, I mean. For good. Or if you had room for me at the bookshop, I could come there.” Already, everything felt so much more homey, more natural. This must be that ‘domestic bliss’ people talked about kicking in already. Seeing Aziraphale as part of his home. Seeing Aziraphale as home.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, pausing with the pot in hand. “Actually,” he said. “Perhaps we could find a place of our own. Something that’s truly ours. A cottage, in the country or by the sea. Where we can have room to breathe, and be ourselves.”

“I’d follow you anywhere,” Crowley said, finally unafraid to be so affectionate. He walked up and scooped one arm around Aziraphale’s waist, walking in stride with him to the kitchenette. “Have for a long time.” They moved together so easily, so fluidly, an extension of one another. They had been free from scrutiny and expectation for some time. But now, here with Aziraphale’s light and Aziraphale’s love, with the whole of Crowley’s truth borne to him, was the first time in his long existence he truly felt free, and felt himself.

And outside, the world turned, and it circled the sun, its closest and most beloved star. The Earth they loved so held them close with its gravity. They would not fall, could not fall from here. And the things that had hurt them and the things that had cast them aside seemed so, so far away, the closer they were to each other. Crowley stood behind, laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, taking in the smell of him and the smell of the tea he brewed with his own two hands, and felt him breathing. And that was far, far more than enough.


End file.
